


Villains of Circumstance

by haoskojihoda



Category: Corto Maltese (Comics)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, and highly ooc, idk what to say abt this one ladz it's nasty, the Monk is mentioned but only bc his throne is very sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28069245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haoskojihoda/pseuds/haoskojihoda
Summary: There are many levels to control and authority when you're a pirate.
Relationships: Corto Maltese/Rasputin
Kudos: 4





	Villains of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again with more unsexy smut of these two!!!!! this time from Corto's pov wow 
> 
> i know Corto only spent like. a year at most as a pirate on Escondida before the events of the Ballad. but id like to think that year was very productive for him and Ras :')
> 
> yes im aware spit and precum r largely not enough 4 anal sex, suspend ur belief pls

“I know I'm crazy, but you're fucking insane.”

Corto watched as Rasputin carefully slipped into the throne room, sticking to the shadows like a guilty felon while he made his way to meet him. The sailor nodded in his direction before taking a long drag and throwing the spent cigarette butt onto the pristine wooden floor, delighting in the way the ashes and sparks scattered before he stomped them out. The Monk had his little place of power cleaned every day, a quirk that gave his roots away more than anything he did, something so European in his notions of cleanliness and authority that only made Corto laugh. Their master liked to keep his hands and home clean while he sent out men like Rasputin to broker dirty deals with plantation owners for the treasury. Money was, curiously enough, never filthy, no matter how Corto felt on the matter. 

“So, what is this? Have you finally grown a pair and are ready to rule this blasted island? Well, I'd rule it, but you'd be my partner!” Rasputin extended his hands in mock friendliness, moonlight catching on his teeth as he smiled the same smile he always did. The smile of a backstabbing snake who said partner with a knife in his back pocket. 

Corto observed him in silence, lighting up another cigarette to ease his nerves. He hated to admit it, but the room unsettled him. Most of it was cast in shadows, only the hints of decorative masks and effigies peeking out of it, staring at the scene before them. A few months back, the Monk had pulled him aside after a meeting and asked him what he thought of them. The answer hadn't changed - they felt oppressive. Freedom didn't exist under such scrutiny. The Monk had seemed pleased with this. Perverted fuck.

Discouraged by Corto's silence, but set on not letting it get to him, Rasputin twirled away from him theatrically, eyeing the throne.

“Don't you think I'd look perfect sitting on that? The Monk is too small minded, always slouching and wagging his fingers like some idiot,” the Russian demonstrated with terrifying accuracy, making Corto's lip twitch upwards involuntarily, “but I'd make it  _ really  _ mine. I would make a good king, no?”

“You're certainly mad enough to be one.”

“Ah, there he is! Ready to conspire now? But be careful, you're speaking to your future king and he is a fan of capital punishment for unruly sailors.” The room was quiet enough for Corto to hear the tremble in Rasputin's voice even as he spouted his delusions, the killer terrified of the man whose seat he was apparently trying to claim. Corto almost found it charming, and he walked towards the man, settling on the other side of the throne. 

“I didn't call you here to help you plan your certain death, Rasputin. You will have to do that on your own time.” 

Rasputin didn't even pretend to look disappointed. They both knew each other well enough by now to know how things stood between them. Corto appreciated the simplicity. 

“Pity. You really have no imagination, Corto Maltese.” How this man managed to pack so much fondness into his name even when insulting him, he'd never know. He'd be a liar if he said it didn't feel good to hear though. “Out with it then, why did you drag me out here in the middle of the night if not for murder?”

“Would you believe me if I said I'd only wanted to see your pretty blue eyes?”

“I could kill you, you know? No one's around to see me do it.” Corto snorted at the empty threat, knowing his friend only fell back on them when the Spaniard had succeeded in unnerving him. 

“The Monk would never allow it. You would never get me out of the flooring and he'd punish you for ruining his ‘divine sanctum’.” 

Rasputin laughed at that, murmuring a ‘fucking clean freak’ under his breath as he moved towards Corto's side. He watched the Russian carefully avoid actually touching the throne, hands pressed tightly to his body as if it might scald him on contact. 

Corto pushed him down into it forcefully. 

There was a certain thrill in watching Rasputin in moments like this, an almost primal pleasure in seeing fear flash in the other man's eyes before he could hide it behind anger. So much violence and potential was balled up in that frame, but here, in the Monk’s holy throne, Rasputin was nothing more than a frightened animal with his teeth bared. How he thought he could be king, Corto would never understand. 

Although, he supposed, he couldn't blame him for posturing. They all played roles here, parodies of parodies of monsters that thrive on money and stories. He'd thought he'd find freedom here, away from the Navy and the ever watchful eyes of the world, but he'd simply traded one for another, more sinister observer. The Monk's presence permeated the air, crawled into every nook and cranny of this wretched island, squeezed its hand around your throat until you sang to its tune and Corto couldn't stand it. He wouldn't be controlled by false idols.

He fiddled with his belt lazily, trying to focus back on the man beneath him whose cursing had died down the moment Corto's hands had touched the leather. A million shadowy figures staring at him from the walls couldn't compare to the way Rasputin's irises widened at the simple act, the blue gone almost entirely. Rasputin's body was honest in a way the man himself could never be with his words, but Corto had known him for long enough to read between the lines. So when Rasputin looked up at him, eyes betraying a mixture of excitement and the need to please, Corto grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him forward. 

Rasputin hissed in pain, but that was the only sound he made before his face was pushed into Corto's groin, his nose pressed firmly against the half hard cock through the thin cotton fabric of his underwear. This moment, the Spaniard knew, was critical. It was always a gamble with this man, the sex. Sometimes, Rasputin would slip into his hut at night and sit at the foot of his bed like some kind of wretched shade, there to signal his end or punish him for his crimes. But Rasputin would sit there, mouth frozen half open and no voice coming out, just waiting until Corto either moved the covers or he broke free from whatever spell he'd been under and ran. Other times, Corto would end up with ringing in his ears from a gun being fired way too close for comfort by the angry Russian. The sailor shivered at the warm breaths on his privates, wishing the man would hurry up and decide how repressed he was feeling tonight already. 

“... He's going to kill us.” Rasputin whispered finally, before gripping Corto's thighs like a lifeline. 

“He won't kill me.” Corto sighed, content. Rasputin dug his nails into the meat of his thigh at the comment, but nuzzled at his cock anyway. He licked at it through the material, a frankly disgusting sensation in Corto's mind, but he let it happen. A thousand silent eyes watched on.

“Suck it.” Rasputin’s head snapped up at the command, annoyance mixing with clear desire, but he just grumbled and slid the soiled underwear down as told, taking Corto's prick in his hand experimentally. This was another thing about his friend that was critical. Obedience didn't come naturally to this man, not by a long shot, and it was always a toss-up between him listening and him walking away, and Corto had to be careful. Seducing Rasputin into following orders was more complicated than expected, but he'd had years of practice by now. Rasputin was going to let him fuck him here and they both knew it. 

Despite his earlier reservations, Rasputin took to his task with great enthusiasm, swallowing his cock as far as he could without gagging on it. The Russian didn't service him like this often, usually preferring to be on the receiving end because he was a lazy lover, but he swirled his tongue and dragged his teeth gently over the foreskin and Corto saw stars. He bucked his hips involuntarily and buried himself inside violently, feeling the other man's throat working around him to accommodate his size. He used one of his hands to wipe the tears that had spilled at the action, before he thrust himself inside again. Rasputin made little choking noises as Corto fucked his face and the Spaniard made a mental note to do this more often, thoroughly enjoying how pathetic and desperate his friend looked as his head bobbed on top of his prick. He noticed that Rasputin was fisting his own cock, jerky little motions that meant that he was close. 

“Hands off, Ras.” Corto growled, his voice sounding unnatural and broken even to himself. Rasputin ignored him, nose pressed into Corto's pubic hair and breathing unevenly while spit dribbled down his chin. The Spaniard pulled him off with more effort than expected, groaning at the loss but knowing that any more and he would have been finished. Rasputin coughed and looked up at him, eyes now dazed and unfocused. Any other situation, and Corto would have laughed at the expression, but now his cock only jumped at the sight. 

“Get up and turn around.” Rasputin blinked at him several times, as if trying to clear his mind enough to think about whether he wanted to obey, but Corto tskd and pulled him up by his biceps. Maneuvering an aroused Rasputin was even harder than usual, but he eventually got the man half on top of the throne with his legs spread enough for what came next. 

“Do you think…” Rasputin giggled as he grabbed onto the sides of the elaborate wooden carvings, “Do you think the Monk has fucked here too?”

“Why, do you want him to fuck you here? I can leave if you want.” Corto teased, hands working on the buttons of Rasputin's ridiculous white suit as he kissed his neck. He didn't know how such a filthy man always kept his suits so clean and he wasn't about to stroke Rasputin's ego like that so he just shrugged it off and threw it onto the ground.

“No!” The Russian sounded genuinely terrified and Corto couldn't resist the laughter that spilled from his lips at the sight. “You're sick. Why are you laughing?!”

“Then I'm afraid I'm all you have. Now be quiet.” Rasputin went rigid under him as he snuck a hand around his prick, dragging his thumb over the slick tip and earning an annoyed grunt. Locking eyes with one of the particularly grotesque masks on the walls, he whispered into the other man's neck, “You don't want him to hear us, do you?”

Precum dribbled out onto his palm. There it was. Rasputin's pitiful truth, the reason he let him fuck him in places like this, places worse than this, even though he so closely guarded their meetings. Rasputin got off on attention more than anyone Corto had ever met, the man practically thrived on being wanted, which was almost impossible to reconcile with his personality, which deterred even the most saintly of people from befriending him. Rasputin wanted to be seen and humiliated almost as much as he desperately wanted this to never come to light. Somehow the man was delusional enough to think he'd lose respect if this ever got out. Somehow, he thought he still had any respect to lose. Corto let go of the weeping member and spit in his hand for extra measure, and then he started working Rasputin open. He looked ridiculous like this, skinny frame arched over the Monk's elegant throne, but Corto felt his cock throb at the sight anyway. They were both hopeless. 

“Corto… Corto slow down.. I-”

The Spaniard curled his fingers and Rasputin moaned out a broken plea. He was rocking his hips back onto the digits now, fucking himself eagerly while he tried to stay upright. Corto sneaked an arm around his throat and snapped him up, flush against his chest so that he could dig his fingers in even deeper, dragging more begging words out of the smaller man. Rasputin strained against the assault, his legs shaking and threatening to give out, but Corto just held him in place and worked him open until 3 fingers were easily slipping in and out of him. Rasputin needed the preparation, he knew, and he enjoyed seeing the way the man transformed under him. He was so loud - the Russian could give any whore a run for her money in that department - and every strangled plea or urgent demand made Corto's head spin. 

“Christ… Ras, do you want us to be caught? You'll wake the entire island.”

Rasputin’s hips stuttered and his legs buckled as the man came, cum spurting over the throne and floor. Corto tightened his hold to keep him from falling, and they stayed like that for a while, Rasputin making small huffing noises and Corto listening to the pirate's uneasy heartbeat, cheek to cheek with him. The Spaniard didn't dare let go because he knew this time was the most critical of all, the seconds after orgasm where Rasputin's head caught up with it all and shame started settling in. Corto didn't understand how a man like Rasputin had such an endless capacity for shame when it came to sex, how he could easily wash blood off of his hands but couldn't stand cum on them for longer than this. Corto envied him for only feeling guilt then, for so easily accepting everything about their lives on Escondida in a way he never could, for unapologetically ruining everything he touched but pretending vulnerability here. The Spaniard loosened his grip once the man had stopped shivering and he trailed his wet hand over his navel and the softening member, giving him a few lazy tugs. Rasputin whined at the sensitivity as Corto teased out the last few drops of cum from the tip. 

“Look at the mess you made, Raspa,” He smiled at the way Rasputin relaxed against him at the nickname, “You're repulsive,” a hitched breath, “Getting off on just my fingers? A virgin would hold out longer.” Corto amazed at the way the older man was already hardening again in his hand, “You want to be caught that badly? Do you want the Monk to see you like this, fucked out of your mind and your cock still begging for more?”

“F-fuck, Maltese, no- please!”

Corto twisted him around and pushed him down onto the throne again, delighting in the look of disgust that passed the Russian's face as he landed on his own cum. He grabbed his hips with both hands and snapped them up against his own in one fell swoop, receiving a startled grunt from the man below. Rasputin looked uncomfortable in this new position, head resting awkwardly against the seat as Corto held his lower body in the air. Their cocks were pressed together, the difference in size stark and intoxicating. Corto wouldn't call himself a vain man, but something about the sight made him smile. Rasputin grimaced in return.

“Your expression is sickening, stop it!”

“You're sending me some mixed signals here, Ras. Is it ‘no’ or is it ‘please, Corto, fuck me’?” Corto tipped his chin down and opened his mouth, letting the saliva drip down to their pricks from his tongue. Whatever smartass reply Rasputin was planning died on his lips. 

“Make yourself useful and spread it around.” Rasputin collapsed on one side as he reached out and grasped both of their members, rubbing the spit over them both obscenely. Corto hoped to hell their silent observers couldn't read thoughts. His head was out of order. The Spaniard watched his friend's face as it warped with concentration and was overwhelmed with an indecipherable feeling, too close to fondness for his liking. Fuck. He almost longed for Rasputin's shame, if only to drown out his own pathetic sentimentality.

“Let go.” Rasputin removed his hand and watched expectantly as Corto positioned himself between his thighs. They groaned out in unison as he pushed himself inside. 

There wasn't much to it, the sex. This time differed very little to all the others, all the quick romps in ships’ cabins or their rooms on Escondida. Not even the Monk's sacred place of power, in all its cleanliness and oppressiveness, could make what they did anything else. Rasputin was still the same callous man, still the same small frame which shook and whined at every thrust, and Corto watched him as he unraveled, at peace. That's what it was all about, in the end. A desperate reach for some sort of peace and control on this blasted island that wanted nothing more than to collar him with promises of treasure and adventure that were paid for with blood money and slave labor. If he couldn't avoid submitting to the Monk's whims, at least he could make Rasputin submit in turn. He snapped his hips particularly roughly and saw Rasputin cover his face with his arms. 

“Don't hide from us, Raspa.”

“I- ah! Fuck.. I'm not hiding from anything!” He sounded like he was in pain, so Corto maintained the vicious pace. The Russian's prick was bobbing between them, red and angry, but neither of them would touch it. It wasn't about Rasputin and they were both aware of this. It had never been about him, no matter how much the older man looked like he wanted to protest after each rendezvous, no matter the words that sometimes slipped from his lips when he thought Corto couldn't hear them, useless and meaningless coming from a pirate's mouth. Their entire friendship was balancing itself on the tip of a knife made up of a thousand silent agreements and shared cigarettes precariously swapped after sex or a fight. Rasputin’s hips would bruise from his hands and tomorrow he'll be extra crass and uncooperative, and they will not mention it. Perhaps Corto will slip his hand to touch the rim of his pants where the purple marks formed, innocently, and Rasputin will slap it away and they will still not talk about it because there is nothing to say. Neither of them had a god to confess their sins to. Neither of them wanted to.

“Are you…?”

Rasputin swallowed a moan and tightened around him.

“Move your arms, come on Raspa - ah - I want to see your face!” He lowered himself down as far as he could without stopping and Rasputin finally unfurled his arms to reveal flushed cheeks and scrunched up eyes contorted in an expression that bordered on painful, with a mouth red and bleeding from trying to stifle all the little noises the man couldn't contain. Corto cursed himself for finding his friend beautiful, men like Rasputin should never be described with such epithets, and yet he caught himself stammering out praise anyway, his balls tightening as the Russian hooked his hands around his neck and pulled himself up to kiss him. Any further embarrassing admissions were devoured by desperate kisses and short thrusts as they both neared their climax. The entire island blurred into the background as the sailor buried himself inside one last time and came, his knuckles white against Rasputin’s flushed body. Their mouths separated for long enough to hear Rasputin beg him not to pull out before he could cum, and Corto obliged, jerking off his prick until completion, every stroke tortuous as the pirate spasmed around his now sensitive member. Saliva dribbled down their chins as they stayed stuck together like that for a few beats, both unwilling to break the contact. Corto was the first to pull back, accompanied by a pitiful noise of disappointment from the other man.

He dropped the now covered in and full of cum Russian back onto the throne none too gently and immediately started dressing, once again keenly aware of all the unblinking wooden eyes staring down at them. The Spaniard ignored several insults hurled at him while he pulled his pants back on and tightened the belt, feeling dazed. He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his coat and immediately lit one up to calm his nerves. The hair on his neck was still standing in the places Rasputin's hands had touched. They'd need stricter rules for this in the future. 

“Give me one.” Corto startled at the voice, almost expecting the man to have somehow disappeared by now. When he turned to look at him, he found the Russian sprawled out in almost the same position he'd left him in, with one leg on the throne and his thighs spread, giving the sailor a clear view of… This man was a demon. 

“You hate my cigarettes.”

“And you hate me. Your point?” Rasputin was looking at his own stomach with undisguised revulsion, tone back to his normal grating one.

“... I don't hate you, Rasputin.” Corto felt stupid for stating it, not even sure if he meant it or not. Such sentiment was unnecessary between them.

“No, you find me… Pretty? I think is the word you used,” Corto grit his teeth, ”Whatever, Maltese, hand it over.” Cigarettes exchanged hands and Rasputin pulled himself up into a more modest position, yet still didn't go for his own clothes, “You're a brute, you know? You fuck all your noble darlings like this? Fuck, I can feel it leaking out, it's disgusting.”

“You're the only one with such privileges, Ras.” Corto bent down to light Rasputin’s cigarette, only noticing his eyes were slightly red and puffy under the gentle glow of the lighter. If he didn't find it utterly endearing, he would have felt bad for the man. “Besides, I didn't hear any complaints.”

Rasputin just let out an annoyed snort. Just as he was straightening out his collar, Rasputin decided to finally get up. The Russian didn't give him enough time to react as he pulled on his tie and dragged him in close, one hand cupping his manhood through his pants uncomfortably. 

“I was serious, you know. We should take this throne, Maltese,” Rasputin's beard tickled his neck as the man spoke directly into his ear, breath warm and disorienting, “I know you're sick of it. I'd let you sail your little ship to your heart's content, since you can't stomach real work,” The mocking tone made Corto's blood boil, “We could make this a regular thing. You don't have to pretend with me, дорогой. I know you.”

Corto grabbed the Russian’s sides and shoved him backwards violently, sick of his presence suddenly. This wasn't why he'd come here. If his prick was still half hard as he stomped out of the throne room, haunted by Rasputin's booming laughter and jeers, well, that was just adrenaline. The mad bastard could figure out how to clean up his mess himself.

  
  



End file.
